


The Art Gallery

by Serenitys_Lady



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Art, Companions, F/M, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 02:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15403290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenitys_Lady/pseuds/Serenitys_Lady
Summary: The Doctor has a quiet - secret - place he goes to unwind.





	The Art Gallery

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: They let me play in their TARDIS, and I am thankful
> 
> A/N1: This is all dtstrainers’ fault. She IM’ed me the picture below and my Muse started jumping around like a certain time Lord on too much sugar.
> 
> A/N2: Slightly AU. But when are my stories anything else!
> 
> A/N3: And, as usual, this got quite a bit more angsty that originally intended.

The Doctor shrugged off his coat and casually tossed it over a coral strut.  He was feeling rather pleased with himself.  He had always prided himself on taking only the best as companions, but he truly hit the jackpot when he asked Donna Noble to travel with him.  Well, rather, _she_ asked **_him_** , and by that, he meant she had insisted.  But still, he agreed, and that was one of the wisest decisions he had ever made.

She was clever, brave and compassionate.  She had proven her worth on their first outing together.  In Pompeii, she understood his burden and readily shared it, with no thought of her own comfort or well-being.  It was a rare thing, to find a traveling companion who was so selfless.  He had managed a few, one in particular he remembered with fondness tempered by regret.  But Donna was unique.  Her acceptance of him as an alien – in fact her acceptance of **_all_** aliens – was a testament to her.

He strolled around the console, absentmindedly flipping toggle switches and turning knobs, contemplating his great good fortune, and remembering their most recent adventure.  After the trauma of the Oodsphere – and the scare she gave him when she asked to go home – he decided to take her on holiday.  Somewhere quiet and peaceful.  And beautiful.  She deserved beauty. 

He had instructed the TARDIS to take them to Athenos, a lovely, pastoral planet in the Teraden System, as far from the Oodsphere – and Earth, for that matter – as he could find.  The Atheni were a gentle people, farmers and artisans.  He had aimed for a time when the crafts movement was in full swing, thinking that Donna would enjoy seeing art created before her eyes.

His instincts were correct, as usual, he preened.  She was fascinated by the artisans, being particularly enthralled by the glass blowers and silversmiths.  She visited every shop and stand.  She sampled a variety of foods, remarking on how similar they were to Earth foods, even so far as to purchase some jams to take back with them on the TARDIS.

But, as with most of their adventures, all was not as it seemed.  After the first day, Donna noticed something that bothered her.  While she had encountered many women tending the animals, working the looms or in the kitchens, she never saw a single one performing the physical crafts.  She spoke with one of the young women with whom she had become friendly, and learned, to her shock and dismay, that, not only were they not encouraged to take up a brush or chisel or hammer-and-tongs, they were strictly forbidden, regardless of their inherent ability or creativity.

As one can imagine, this did not sit well with his companion.  Much to his horror, Donna marched straight over to a group of men lounging about the smithy, and demanded an explanation.  The Doctor was about to stop her, to pull her aside and remind her of _‘fixed points’_ and all that, when something suddenly occurred to him.  Surreptitiously, he took out his sonic screwdriver and scanned the area, trying to pinpoint the date.

Shaking his head as he checked the read-out, he realized that he – or the TARDIS-probably the TARDIS – had brought them to Athenos one generation earlier than he had planned.  And that this indeed **_was_** a _‘fixed point’_.  It was Donna Noble who inspired and facilitated the growth of the Atheni arts.  He stood back and smiled as he watched her argue with the _‘brawny tough guys’_ , as she called them, that women were just as capable as men, that it took as much strength to handle livestock or shift bags of grain as it did to wield a hammer or throw clay.  To demonstrate, she challenged one of the smiths to an arm wrestling test.

The Doctor _did_ protest at this, fearing that she would do herself an injury, but his companion assured him she knew what she was doing.  He should never have doubted her.  She was not only capable, she was **_smart_**!  She knew instinctively that the men would underestimate her at worst, or shy away from fully engaging with her out of a misguided _‘respect’_ for her at best.  Also, unbeknownst to the Doctor, Donna had gained significant upper-body strength caring for her father during his illness.

After besting two of the village’s strongest craftsmen, Donna was able to engage them in a spirited but productive discussion about traditional roles and the value of cross-training.  Everyone was surprised to learn that some of the men were interested in learning more of the domestic arts and animal husbandry.  All in all, it was a satisfactory resolution of what could have been a very contentious situation.

The Doctor was startled out of his reverie by a rather strident ‘ _OI!  Earth to Spaceman!!’_ from behind him.  He turned and realized, from her stance and expression, that this was not the first time she had spoken.  He smiled sheepishly and, “Sorry!  In my own head, as usual.  Did you need something, Donna?”

Donna rolled her eyes.  “Careful,” she replied with a smirk.  “That’s a dangerous place to take up residence.”  She walked over and put her hand on his forearm.  “Doctor,” she began.  “I just wanted to thank you.  These last two days were wonderful.”

He smiled.  “So glad you enjoyed.  The Atheni should be thanking _you_!” he stated.  “You singlehandedly changed their entire history.”

Donna blushed and shoved him playfully.  “Oh, go on, you.  They just needed a little nudge in the right direction.  I didn’t do anything special.”

“Stop that,” the Doctor protested.  “It _was_ special.  **_You_** are special.  When will you believe me?”

“When you stop talking wet, that’s when!” she retorted.  “In any case, I’m knackered.  I think I’ll have a long soak and then get some sleep.  You should too.  At least relax a little.  No repairing the TARDIS or re-cataloguing the Library.  Promise me.”

“I will.  Sleep well, Donna.”

After watching her leave, the Doctor rechecked the settings on the console to ensure they were safely in the Vortex.  Donna’s words resonated, which surprised him.  _‘Maybe she’s right,’_ he thought.  ‘ _Maybe I do need some down-time’_.  Not sleep.  He was too amped for sleep.  His eye caught the leather tube case he had brought back from the planet, and it gave him an idea.  He ambled down the corridor to his bedroom.

He tossed the case on the bed and stripped down to his vest and boxers.  Opening the small wardrobe in the corner of the room, he removed and donned a pair of loose beige trousers and a baggy white smock.  Slipping his feet into fisherman sandals, he picked up the case and left the room.

He traversed several corridors, climbed up and down a couple of staircases, and manoeuvred over a bridge and around two storage bins.  Finally reaching his destination, he opened a plain wooden door and entered a room he hadn’t been in for quite some time. 

On one side of the room was a long table with shelves containing a variety of art supplies.  Another area held a potter’s wheel, clays of several colours and textures, jars of glaze, and carving tools.  A large kiln took up one wall, and a work stand with a partially-formed clay bust of a large-eared man sat in front of a low stool nearby.  The final area housed an easel, a small table with a palette and scattered tubes of paint and varnishes, and an assortment of stretched canvases in a myriad of sizes stacked neatly against the wall.

He went over to the supply table and opened the tube, carefully removing a heavy parchment roll.  He smoothed the paper and smiled at the image.  One of the Atheni artists had drawn a caricature of Donna in full ‘warrior princess mode’: arms crossed and determined stare.  It was lovely, but not quite good enough.  Too stylized.  Not _‘Donna’_ enough.

He ambled over to the stacked canvases and chose a medium-sized one, setting it on the easel.  Retrieving a charcoal stick from the supply table, he returned to the easel and began to sketch the basic outline of a female figure.  He paused a moment, going over in his mind what image he wanted to capture.  Was it the purple dress she wore in Pompeii (one of his personal favourites), or her face framed by the fur-trimmed hood of the coat from the Oodsphere?  He glanced at the caricature of Donna in her tan leather coat – the one she wore almost as armour – but dismissed it.  He wanted something to show her elegance, her softer side.

He slowly smiled as an image formed in his mind.  _‘Perfect!’_ he thought, and began to sketch.  He moved with a swift, sure hand, and the charcoal marks quickly became recognizable.  Assuring himself that he had gotten the dimensions and perspectives right, he moved back to the supply table and gathered tubes of paint and brushes.

The Doctor worked tirelessly, losing track of time – an odd thing for a Time Lord, but very much **_him_** – until a sound intruded on his concentration, like a soft knock.  He waited to see if it would be repeated, as he wasn’t completely sure he had heard it at all.  It did.  Somehow, Donna must have found the studio.

That was absurd.  His art studio was a secret haven, a place of refuge and relaxation.  He had never shown it to anyone.  It was in one of the most remote areas of the TARDIS, so the only way she could have discovered it.….  He stopped.  Of course.  His ship must have led her there.  But why?  She knew how important his privacy was to him, especially something as intimate as this.  “What are you playing at?” he scolded, looking up at the ceiling.

A soft breeze blew across his face, and a musical sound filled his head.  _“It is time to share, My Thief.  This one is worthy.”_

He stood and thought a moment.  Perhaps She was right.  Donna _was_ different than most of his other companions.  She had more life experience, was more accepting of him for who he was, and definitely less self-absorbed.  Maybe it _was_ time to share this part of him.

He grabbed a muslin sheet and covered the canvas and easel.  He wasn’t ready to share _this_ piece of art.  Not quite yet.  Steeling himself, he walked over to the door, just as another tentative knock came.  He opened it a crack and exclaimed, “Donna!  What a delightful surprise.”

Donna stared at him, clearly confused.  What was she seeing?  Her eyes took in his wildly dishevelled hair, his paint spotted clothes, and the streak of charcoal on his cheek.  “Doctor?” she asked tentatively.  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?  The TARDIS seemed to think it was okay.”

“I thought you were napping,” he stated lamely, still not opening the door wide enough for her to see much of the room behind him.

“That was twelve hours ago!” she exclaimed.  “I’ve bathed, slept, made dinner – which **_you_** never showed up for – and watched three episodes of _Midsomer Murders_ in the media room, waiting for you.  What are you doing in there?”  She had her suspicions, based on his appearance, but the idea was so far removed from anything she could ever have imagined, that she felt it necessary to ask.

The soft breeze blew again and he sighed inwardly. _‘I know.  I know,’_ he told his ship.  Taking a deep breath, he opened wide the door and motioned her to enter.

Donna took a few steps into the room and stopped short, gazing around her, trying to make sense of she was seeing.  The Doctor stood patiently but apprehensively by, trying to gauge her reaction.  Donna roamed about, picking up a tool or brush and putting it back down, clearly puzzled.

He let her explore at her own pace, only intervening when she approached the covered easel.  He lightly touched her arm and shook his head slightly.  She understood and backed away immediately.  She instinctively knew that he was sharing something important to him, and she wasn’t about to make it any more difficult for him by prying.  He would reveal what he would in his own time.

“Not that one,” he stated softly.  “Not now.  Well, not yet anyway.  It’s not finished.”  He smiled at her bemused expression.  “You made me promise to relax, remember.”  He shrugged.  “So I came here.”  He looked around, as if he was seeing the space for the first time.  “Haven’t been here in a while.  A long while,” he mused.

Donna was at a loss for what to say.  “Should I let you get back to it, then?  I didn’t mean to bother you,” she finally blurted out.  It wasn’t what she wanted to say – she had so many questions – but didn’t have the faintest idea where to start.

“No, no!” he responded quickly.  “If it was a bother, I wouldn’t have answered the door.”  Now that he had allowed her in, he found that he wanted to share it all.  He took her hand and led her to one of the blank walls.  Well, it looked blank, but as they approached, he reached out and ran his hand along the chair rail.  To Donna’s astonishment, a section of wall opened up, revealing an arched doorway.

They walked along a short corridor until they reached another, plain door.  Taking a small key out of his pocket, he unlocked the door, but before he opened it, he turned to his companion.  “Donna,” he began tentatively.  “I don’t usually bring people here.  It’s a sanctuary of a sort for me.  My art is something I do for myself, not for public viewing.”

“I don’t want to intrude, honestly.  You don’t have to.”  She began to back away.

“No, you misunderstand me,” he replied quickly.  “I _want_ to show you.  Really.  Please.  Come in.”

He opened the door and stood back.  Donna stepped through and stared, mouth open and eyes wide.  It was a cavernous room, and every inch of wall space was covered.  There were niches along three walls, eight of them containing bronze busts of men of various ages and visages.  There were paintings, large and small, of men and women, and a few alien creatures as well.  She just stood in the centre of the room, trying to take it all in.

The Doctor came up beside her.  She turned to him and asked simply, “What is all this?  Who are all these people?  Are they Time Lords?”

“Well,” he drawled, “In a manner of speaking, yes.  They’re me.”  He indicated the line of busts.  Seeing her confused look, he sighed.  “It’s a long story.”

When he didn’t continue, she crossed her arms and gave him a stern look.  “You can’t just drop something like that and not explain.  Go on.”

“I didn’t think that would work,” he grinned sardonically.  “I’ll give you the condensed version.”  Seeing her raise her eyebrows, he continued, “I’ll elaborate at another time, I promise.  But here it is.”  He breathed deeply and began.  “Time Lords have a _quirk_ of biology, you might say.  When death – whether from natural aging or misadventure – is imminent, we have the ability to stave it off by rearranging our atoms and DNA so to speak to create a new, healthy body.  Regeneration, it’s called.  We retain the same memories, many of the same emotions, but personality changes are common.  These,” he swept a hand toward the niches, “are my past faces.”

Donna had known he was an alien from the first time they met.  She had travelled through time to the past, and through space to strange and wonderful places.  The idea that he could assume different forms wasn’t the most extraordinary thing she would have to come to terms with, she realized.

“So,” she observed, walking slowly from niche to niche.  “You’ve had eight, no nine faces?”

“This one’s the tenth, actually,” he corrected her.  “Nine is still sitting on the plinth in the other room.  Can’t seem to get the ears right,” he muttered absently.

“Ten?  Blimey,” she replied, shaking her head, her mind reeling at the thought of how long he actually had lived.  She stopped in front of a particularly young head, with shoulder-length wavy hair.  “Ooo,” she remarked, “this one’s quite nice.”  She ran her finger down the long, straight nose and the curls on the high forehead.

The Doctor’s fingers unconsciously reached up to touch his own nose.  Donna caught this movement out of the corner of her eye and began to snicker.  “Don’t look so shattered, you prawn,” she chided.  She walked over and ruffled his hair.  “I like you just the way you are.”

“A long streak of alien nothing, you mean?” he asked, a tad petulantly.

“Oh, don’t pout,” she ordered.  “You’re **_my_** streak of alien nothing, and don’t you forget it!”  She gave his cheek a little pat and then returned to perusing the artwork.  “So who are the rest of these?”  He didn’t answer right away.  She noticed his eyes were unfocused, as if his mind was far away.  “Spaceman?”

He blinked and looked at her.  “What?  Oh, so sorry.  Miles – no, actually **_years_** – away.”  He laid his arm across her shoulder and led her slowly around the room.  “Most of these are former companions of mine, and a few old friends I didn’t want to forget.  This one,” he said, stopping in front of a dashing man, well-muscled and sporting a beautiful tattoo of a snake eating its own tail.  “This was a good friend of mine, a Time Lord.  Called himself The Corsair.  This is my favourite version of him.  Although he was rather fetching when he was a woman.”

Donna stopped short.  “ _‘when he was a woman’_?!?!  You can **_do_** that?”

“Well, **_I_** haven’t.  And I certainly don’t have any plans to.  I happen to like this form.”  He snickered at the incredulous look on her face.  “Come on, Donna.  There’s a few more I’d like to tell you about.”

They proceeded to traverse the room while the Doctor pointed out numerous paintings:  a young man in a fur-lined tunic and rustic kilt; a savage warrior woman in rather less clothing than Donna would have thought practical for travelling with the Doctor; a rather serious-looking woman in a vintage stewardess uniform; an athletic young woman with dark hair, a bomber jacket and baseball bat.

He stopped before a small framed portrait of a sweet young girl with short dark hair and cute pug nose.  A fond smile spread across his face.  “Susan,” he said simply.  “My granddaughter.”  He saw Donna’s expression.  “I’m an old, old Time Lord, Donna,” he said with a grin.

Donna thought about the first bust of an elderly gentleman and shook her head.  There was so much to this man – this _alien –_ than she had realized.

She remained silent as they made the circuit of the room.  She had marvelled at the variety of styles and – to be fair – skill levels the various paintings revealed.  Some were quite flamboyant, with large splashes of colour.  Some were almost primitive, simple charcoal sketches.  The most recent seemed to be more realistic, and she got a sense of deeper emotion hiding amid the brush strokes.

They arrived at a large, formal portrait in a place of prominence of a young woman with dark hair, a serious look in her eyes, but a charming smile.  This one definitely was done with love, Donna could tell, and the soft expression in the Doctor’s eyes confirmed it.  “Someone special?” she asked simply.

“Very,” he replied.  “Sarah Jane Smith.  She was with me the longest, with my Third and Fourth self.”  He went quiet.

Donna was almost afraid to ask, fearing the worst, but had to know.  “What happened to her?  Why isn’t she with you now?”

Still staring at the portrait, he hesitated.  How much should he tell her?  How much did he **_want_ ** to tell her?  He didn’t want to frighten her, but something inside him yearned to share his secrets with her.  “Sarah Jane was a lot like you, Donna.  She was clever.  She was fearless.  She was compassionate.  She put me in my place when I needed it.  Well,” he drawled, “you’re actually better at that.”  He grinned at her, but the smile soon left his face.  “I was called back home, and I was forbidden to bring her.  Humans weren’t allowed on Gallifrey back then, and I was too much of a coward to stand up to them.”

“She’s still alive, then!” Donna exclaimed.

The grin was back.  “Oh, yes!  She’s very much alive.  I actually met up with her a few years back.  We were chasing the same alien incursion.  The Krillitanes.”  His smile widened at the memory.

“So why didn’t she come back with you?” Donna persisted.

The smile slipped a little.  “I offered.  But she turned me down.  All the best people do, I guess,” he said with a side-eyed glance.  “She’s gotten older, and made a life for herself.  Still saving the human race, though, when she can.  Yes, Sarah Jane was special.”

Donna said nothing but squeezed his arm.  They moved on until they came upon a series of paintings of the same size and style, in matching frames: a young blonde girl, a young black man, a young black woman, and the handsomest man Donna had ever seen.  She identified the blonde immediately.  “Rose?” she asked.

“Rose,” he repeated.

“She’s pretty.  A little young, but definitely pretty.”  She walked closer and contemplated what she observed in the image.  “Her eyes are intelligent, but that grin is just a little too cocky for my taste.  Was that her, or your memory of her?”

The Doctor joined her at the painting.  “A little of both, I suppose.  She _was_ young, which is what I needed when we met.  I had recently regenerated after losing the Time War and was bordering on self-destructive.  She was fresh, and pure, and exciting, and she brought me back from the brink.  I loved her for it, but not in the way she needed or expected.  I miss her smile but not the impetuousness.  She had that sense of indestructibility of youth and, all too often, she allowed – or rather _encouraged_ – my recklessness.”

“Well,” Donna retorted, knowing he was approaching melancholy.  “Good thing you have **_me_** now, innit?!” she asked with a snicker.  He knew what she was doing and he appreciated her all the more for it.

“Moving on,” he continued.  “This is Mickey Smith,” pointing to the black man.  “He was actually Rose’s boyfriend when we met.  He was a bit of an idiot at the start, but grew into a brave, intelligent man.  He and Rose are both in a parallel universe, with no way to get back.”  He sighed.  “But that’s as should be, I suppose.”

After a moment, he continued.  “Now this,” he said, moving to the next portrait.  “ ** _This_** is Martha Jones, **_Dr_** Martha Jones, to be precise.  I hadn’t been looking for a companion – even though you told me I should – but the Universe seems to know better than I.  But I told you about that.”

“She’s bloody gorgeous!” Donna exclaimed.  “And you turned her down?  Are you mental?!”

“No, not _mental_ ,” he retorted, affronted.  “Just not interested.  It was too soon …” he paused.  “… after Rose.  Partly because I didn’t want to go through that hero-worship all over again, and partly because I was still raw from failing to protect her.”  He didn’t complete the thought _‘And after **your** rejection.’_   “I only intended to take her on one trip, as a _‘thank you’_ helping me with the Plasmavore incident.  It kind of went pear-shaped after a while.”

He gazed up at the portrait and sighed.  “She’s so strong, so capable.  And smarter than I gave her credit for.  I’ll tell you all about her at another time.  She’s a remarkable woman.  And I nearly destroyed her.  She got out before I could complete the job,” he admitted.

He started to move away but Donna grabbed his arm.  “Wait a minute, Time Boy.  You don’t think you can just walk away without telling me about **_HIM_** , do you?” she demanded, pointing to the painting of the tall man in a military greatcoat.

The Doctor rolled his eyes.  “I had hoped,” he admitted, wryly.  Returning to the portrait, he stated flatly, “That’s Jack.  Captain Jack Harkness.  Con man, former Time Agent, lady’s man – actually _anyone’s_ man – and probably the closest I have to a best friend since I graduated from the Academy.  He runs the Torchwood base in Cardiff.  And before you ask, no, we won’t be going to Cardiff anytime soon.”

“Spoilsport,” Donna muttered playfully.  “Are you sure we can’t just pop in….”

“Don’t!” he responded, holding up a finger.  “Just…. don’t!”  He glared at her until he saw the glint in her eyes.  “Bloody woman,” he grumbled.  He stood for a moment, contemplating whether to leave things as they were, but he had opened up to Donna more than he had to any other companion, and he realized it felt **good**.  Making up his mind, he informed her, “There’s one more thing I’d like to show you.  _Allons-y!_ ”  Intrigued, Donna followed without a word.

They left the Gallery, the Doctor making sure he had locked the door.  He led her back down the winding and sometimes confusing maze of corridors and stairways, until they came to a wooden panel, beautifully carved in an ornate floral pattern.  There was no knob or latch or keyhole.  He stood before it, closed his eyes and put out a hand, his fingers tracing a centrepiece in the shape of one of the squiggles Donna had noticed on sticky notes all over the console.  As his fingertips lingered, she felt a vibration, and the panel slid soundlessly into the wall.

Warm pale orange sunlight spilled out into the hallway.  Donna looked over at the Doctor, who smiled and took her hand, ushering her into the room.  Which wasn’t a room after all, but a garden, with silver-leafed trees and red grass.  There were varieties of flowers and shrubbery that she had never seen before, and her mouth gaped at the beauty of it.

He watched her, his hearts swelling at the sight of her wonder and awe.  That was one of the things he loved most especially about her: that she approached every new thing with an openness and acceptance that he had rarely found in Humans.  His eyes followed her, as she tentatively approached a bed of tall, flowering plants. 

“Is it safe?” she asked.  He nodded.  She reached out and touched a multi-petaled flower in a particularly vibrant shade of purple.  She was astonished to find that the texture of the petals was very soft, almost like fine velvet.  She turned to him and inquired, “Where are these from?  They’re beautiful.”

 _‘Not half as beautiful as you.’_   The thought came to him unbidden, and caught him unawares.  Impulsively, he plucked the flower and placed it behind her ear.  “These are from my home, from Gallifrey.  It’s all I have left of it, besides the Old Girl here,” he stated affectionately.  “Before I left for good, before the War, I tried to collect as many native plants as I could, just to have a quiet place to remind myself of the _good_ things of home.”

Donna saw the sorrow and regret in his eyes, and reached out and touched his arm.  “I’m glad you saved something,” she said.  “We all need that little bit of familiarity, that comfort. Thank you so much for sharing it.”  Feeling a little like she was intruding on a private place, she made to leave. 

The Doctor stopped her.  “Wait,” he cried.  “It wasn’t just the garden I wanted you to see.”  He took her hand again and guided her through the garden to a meadow until they came to a stream.  Following the stream to its source, they arrived at a small grotto with a gentle flow of water down one side of the blue crystal rock face.

It was almost shrine, with a marble figure of a woman at its centre.  It was not quite life-sized, but exquisitely carved, and painted in the muted style of a Lladro figurine.  She had dark hair, and wore long formal robes of pale red and orange.  She stood proudly, staring ahead with clear hazel eyes that held wisdom and compassion.  There was a bird on her shoulder, and she held a bowl in the crook of one arm.

Although there was no obvious similarity in form or figure, there was something in the eyes of this woman that Donna immediately recognized.  She turned toward the Doctor, and he knew she had made the connection.  Her innate insight was another of the qualities that he found endearing.

 

“My mother,” he acknowledged.  “She had a compassionate heart and raised me with a gentleness that was generally frowned upon by polite Gallifreyan society.  But she had the strength of character to defy the rigid traditions of the Time Lords.  She was a healer and an empath, and I think I got some of my better qualities from her.”

Donna smiled fondly at him.  “So we have _her_ to thank then.”

The Doctor looked at her quizzically.  “For what, exactly?”

“For **_YOU_** , ya prawn,” she chuckled.  “For the person you turned out to be.  Without her influence, the Universe may never have had the Doctor.  And the Universe **_needs_** the Doctor.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” he mumbled, embarrassed by her praise.  “I’ve done some terrible things….”

“Yeah, yeah.  I know.  _‘The Oncoming Storm.  The Destroyer of Worlds.’_   Blimey, what a glass-half-empty kind of attitude!  Look at all the wonderful things you’ve done.  With the Ood.  The Atheni.  Pompeii and Caecilius and his family.  You’ve saved the Universe – and Earth especially – countless times.”  She looked at him thoughtfully.  “Sometimes, Doctor, I think you can’t see the forest for the trees.  I think that, sometimes, something bad _has_ to happen before something good can come in.  And sometimes,” she gazed straight into his eyes, “sometimes **_YOU_** are the only one who can do it.”  She touched his cheek.  “She would have been really proud of you.”

The Doctor closed his eyes briefly, reacting both to her touch and the thought of his mother’s approval.  He covered her hand and brought it to his lips.  “Thank you, Donna Noble.  You truly are remarkable.”

Donna blushed and stepped away, self-conscious.  “Oh go on, you.”

The Doctor knew not to pursue the moment further.  To break the spell, he stated, “So, there you have it.  My secret hideaway.  Shall we go back in?  I believe you mentioned dinner?”  He looked at her hopefully.

Donna was grateful for the change of subject and snickered at the _‘Time Puppy’_ expression on his face.  “I knew you couldn’t go that long without eating.  I really don’t know how you stay so skinny.  All the running, I suppose.  Come on, Spaceman.  Let’s see what I can rustle up in the kitchen.”

Before they left, the Doctor had Donna place her fingers on the ornate squiggle on the outside of the door and activated his sonic screwdriver.  “There,” he explained, “your biometrics are recorded into the door lock mechanism.  You’ll be able to come here any time you want.  It’s a lovely place to unwind.  The TARDIS will show you the way back here.”

“I just may take you up on that,” she replied.  And they proceeded on to prepare dinner.

Well over a month – approximate Earth dating, as time flows so differently in the TARDIS – had gone by.  The two time travellers had their fair share of adventures.  There was a military coup to prevent on Galtraxis, a potentially devastating plague to contain on Mitharno, and a wonderfully pleasant – and surprisingly crises-free – festival at the Winter Court of the Forty-Third Valtrax of Baltron.  They even made a quick trip back to Earth for a picnic on the shores of Scottish loch during the Regency Period.

Donna would never admit this aloud, but she rather enjoyed dressing up for their adventures.  When they returned to the TARDIS, she immediately made for the kitchen, to put away the remains of their picnic.  She had removed her bonnet but hadn’t changed out of the beautiful high-waisted morning dress.  She had been thinking about the very pleasant afternoon they had just spent when she heard a loud **_‘DONNA!!!’_** coming from the Control Room.

Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she sauntered out of the kitchen.  “You bellowed, Milord?” she asked, sarcastically.

The Doctor looked up and stared.  “Oh.  You haven’t changed,” he observed. 

“And you never do,” she muttered to herself.  “Yeah,” she replied.  “I like this style.  It’s comfortable and fits well.  Makes for a nice change from some of the doll-sized outfits the TARDIS wardrobe seems to come up with.”

He had noticed her dress and how lovely she looked in it when she first emerged from her room, but he realized he had never said anything at the time.  “It’s quite fetching,” he admitted, blushing slightly at the memory.  The pale blue fabric was a lovely complement to her fair skin, and draped nicely over her curves.  And her ginger hair fell down her neck in graceful ringlets.  He coughed, as he tried to recover his composure.  “But not terribly practical.  For the running,” he added lamely.

Donna shook her head.  “Only you can give a girl a compliment and then slap her back into reality!” she laughed.  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be back to normal.”  She started toward the corridor to the living quarters.

The Doctor raced over and stopped her.  “Can that wait a moment, Donna?  I’d like to show you something.”

“Okay,” she answered warily.  When they arrived at the door to the art room, she became a little suspicious.  “What are we doing here?” 

He walked over to the covered easel.  “It’s finished.  I wanted you to see it before I installed it in the gallery.”  He reached out for the muslin sheet.  “I hope you like it.”

Donna had actually forgotten about the painting.  “I’m sure it’s fine,” she replied, a little apprehensive.

The Doctor slowly removed the cover and Donna just stood, staring.  The figure that looked back at her from the canvas was a woman she had never seen.  She was tall, lithe and graceful.  She wore a form-fitted below-the knee dress with a draped sweetheart neckline in a brilliant royal blue.  She had long ginger locks that almost glowed.

Donna turned to the Doctor and demanded, “Who’s this?”

He was taken aback at her vehement reaction.  “It’s **_YOU_**!  Who else **_would_** it be?!?”

“That’s never me,” she reiterated.  “Sure, she’s a ginger and I recognize the dress from the reception we went to on Callisto Prime but ….”

“That’s what I see when I look at you,” he stopped her.  “You’re more graceful than you give yourself credit for.  You’re beautiful, when you let yourself be.  Like now, in that dress.  You always try to hide yourself behind frumpy oversized jumpers.”

Donna remained adamant.  “You can’t put that up there with all those other beautiful paintings.  It’s a lie!”

“The only lie here is the one you keep telling yourself!” he retorted.  “You really are better – in every way – than you think.  Maybe you’ve been told lies all your life and you can’t – or _won’t_ – believe me when I tell you differently.  But I will continue to do so until you realize it for yourself.”  He replaced the cloth over the painting.  “And this **_will_** take its proper place in the Gallery.”

Donna was stunned at his fervent declarations.  She had never had anyone in her life who felt so strongly, so positively about her.  She wasn’t sure she was entirely comfortable with the Doctor’s words, but something loosened a little inside her heart.  She walked over and stilled his hand.

“You’re right,” she admitted, removing the cloth.  “I’ve never been able to accept a compliment.  They didn’t happen very often, and the ones that did usually came with strings attached.  For thirty years, I’ve been told that I was a failure and would never amount to anything.  I’d made a right mess of my life, right up until I found you again.  You’ll have to be patient with me, Doctor.  I may not be able to change easily or soon, but I promise I’ll try.”

The Doctor realized the enormity of her statement.  He put his arm around her shoulder.  “That’s all anyone can ask for.  Thank you, Donna.”

“Thank _you_ , Spaceman,” she responded with a warm smile.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go shower and change.  See you in an hour in the media room?  I think it’s a _‘Princess Bride’_ kind of night, don’t you?”

He grinned like a loon at the suggestion.  He loved that film, and always welcomed the chance to watch it again.  “Absolutely!  I’ll make the popcorn!  _Allons-y!_ ” he cried, as they left the art room and headed back down the corridor.

The Doctor waited until Donna had entered her bedroom before opening his door.  He knew it wasn’t the right time to show her the most recent addition to the décor.  On the nightstand by his bed sat a small painting of a magnificent figure of a woman, with long ginger hair.  She wore the formal robes of the Prydonian Chapter, but in blues and purples, rather than the traditional red and orange, firstly, because he despised Time Lord tradition and, secondly, because the colours suited her better.  At her feet was a peacock, and an owl perched on the branch of a silver-leafed tree in the background. 

He picked it up and regarded it fondly.  This was how he **_really_** saw her: a Time Lady full of grace and wisdom.  His protector and guide.  He knew he could not show it to her, not yet, maybe not ever.  She wouldn’t understand.  “Someday,” he whispered.  “Someday you’ll know what I know.  That you are magnificent.”  He replaced it and exited the room. 

“Donna?!” he yelled down the corridor as he headed toward the kitchen.  “Do you want butter on your popcorn?”

 


End file.
